There's a Ghost in my Lungs
by menz815
Summary: Spoilers for the promo for 2.12. A look at the aftermath of Peter being infected. P/O


_A/N: _Just a little something before the big episode tomorrow. Thanks to Joy who really helped me out with this one.

Disclaimer: Don't own Fringe or the characters.

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_Beep…beep…beep…beep…_

You were in the recesses between awake and asleep, drifting between semi-conscious and not, the steady beat of your heart echoing in the back of your mind. You were having that dream again, the one you could never remember from childhood, and yet you knew this was the dream, as you were ripped from your bed in the dead of night. Terror filled your lungs. And then suddenly, you were in the water, eight years old, breathing (_in, out, in, out_) until it was just too cold. Then nothing.

_That_ you knew should feel real and yet it was more like a dream than the former. The details were hazy, as if it were a second-hand memory, something that had been told to you, and was never actually lived.

You hated these dreams, you hated how they continued to haunt you. You hated their consistency.

You'd always hated stability. For each day to have the same rhythm, same routine. If you stopped too long for anything, if you got too used to a life, you knew it would bite you in the ass later. You weren't one for sticking around. You'd almost been in love once. But you cut and run before it could ever come to much. It was because you cared that sometimes her face joined the dreams. It was because you cared that you left.

Life was not a metronome, not in your book. Life was jazz. Moving and pausing at unpredictable moments, ever changing, never stagnant. The sound of a piano bounced around in your brain, keeping time to the steady beat of your heart.

_Beep….beep…beep…beep…_

You'd always hated stability, except when it came to her.

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You woke to blinding sunlight pouring into your window, and the sterile smell that met your nostrils automatically sent your stomach into waves of nausea. One look at your arm, and you knew you were in the hospital; an IV, some leads from your chest, maybe even a catheter.

Oh joy.

Once your eyes adjusted to the sunlight, you saw her sitting there, pouring over some paperwork. The firm set of her mouth told you that she was stressed and worried; that was one of the first looks you had come to know. It came with the job territory. So did lack of sleep. But unlike most times, she was not carrying her exhaustion well. You saw the puffiness around her eyes, the light shake of her hand as she pressed pen to paper.

You remembered a time when you couldn't read her; now it was like opening up a familiar book, maybe one you had loved as a child. There was a calming effect, a warmth, to watching her practiced movements, the ones you had memorized over time. You were always the student, ever learning. An observer who wished he could interfere.

There was a part of you that was surprised by your new-found ability to stay in one place for so long. To have the same job for over a year, to owning a house instead of staying in a dumpy apartment building or a beat-down hotel room. But you supposed it all boiled down to her. She had gotten you to stay, out of pity, you had said. You knew now that was not the case.

She looked up at that moment. She smiled, but it didn't reach all the way to her eyes. It rarely ever did.

"Hey." You murmured, a smirk playing at your lips. If she knew you had been staring, you really didn't care.

"Hey." She murmured back, her voice extremely hoarse, and as she moved closer, you saw the marks upon her neck. Fingerprints. Someone had tried to strangle her.

You knew you had been infected, but besides being placed in quarantine that was the only thing you remembered. You saw her hand upon the glass separating you, the look in her eyes. You heard the desperation in your voice. And then nothing. But it wasn't nothing for her.

"What happened?" You said, concern evident in the tremble of your voice. You reached your hand up to turn her neck slightly to the left.

She hesitated. She put on that mask you knew. The one that she put up when she didn't want to betray any emotion. She should have known better that it wouldn't work with you.

"You were delirious. It was an accident," was all she managed to get out.

Her words were like ice in your veins; you felt your face harden. How could you possibly have done that to her? You were not that man, you had never wanted to be that man. And yet here you were, responsible for the dark blemishes upon her soft white skin.

"I'm so sorry." You said, as anger, anger at yourself, came over you in waves. The tic in your jaw fired rapidly.

She shook her head slightly, brushing it off, trying to relieve you of your guilt. "I've been through worse." She bent her head over her paperwork once again.

"Hey." You said, a little bit stronger this time, and yet soft all the same. She looked up, and you cupped her cheek, letting your fingers rest upon her delicate flesh. You looked into her eyes, so she would know you really meant it, that it ripped you apart to know that you of all people had caused her pain. "I'm so sorry." You repeated.

But in her eyes, you only saw your pain mirrored. Ghosts swam in the tears that collected on her eyelids and threatened to fall. She turned her head, pulling away from your touch. She answered your unspoken question.

"I've already lost too much."

And before she became too vulnerable, because that was her way, she got up and left the room, mumbling something about finding Walter.

You were left with the ghost of her warm skin upon your palm. It seemed that was one thing that would never change, no matter how much you wished it would.

You'd always hated stability, especially when it came to her.

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